Stop the Presses!
by cactusnell
Summary: A gossip rag covers Sherlock's sex life. Does he have one?


The Thames Tattler was a small time relatively new weekly edition to the London press. It carried news, or what it tried to pass off as news, to a small but significant portion of the population of the U.K.'s capital city. This "news" was often libelous, hardly ever true, and always of a salacious nature. Naturally, the Tattler was was turning into a huge success.

Sherlock Holmes tended to ignore the press, or at least that was what he tried to convince others, and himself, although he was not above giving his coat collar a flip or running his hand through his curls if her know he was being photographed. But the Tattler, being the salacious rag that it was, and never pretending to be anything more, was now targeting not Sherlock's professional life, put his private one. It seemed their readers cared nought about the crimes he solved, but were immensely curious about with whom he was currently sleeping. Being as his real sex life would sell no papers, they were now creating one for him, and doing a helluva job of it.

BOFFIN DETECTIVE AND DOCTOR DEATH HEAT UP THE MORGUE!

The headline caught Molly's attention as she picked up her morning paper at the newsstand near St. Bart's. Below the headline was a picture a Sherlock and her approaching the morgue entrance the hospital. He had his arm around her waist. Molly remembered the incident a lot more innocently than the Tattler. It had been a frosty day, she had slipped on the ice. Sherlock had grabbed her to steady her. He had held on and guided her to the entrance as the pavement was very slippery, and he did not want to repeat the incident. Inside was yet another picture, Molly looking up at Sherlock while he gazes at her with rapt attention. What was cut from the photo was the corpse between them, it's chest cut and spread open. Not exactly romantic. Molly really didn't need this. It was bad enough living with the sympathetic looks, some faked, others not, of her co-workers as they speculated about her relationship with utterly gorgeous but completely sociopathic consulting detective. That had been going on for a long time, and she had learned to live with it. But this was going to bring up a whole new round of speculation. Needless to say, Molly was not happy.

When Sherlock made his appearance the next day, he was totally unphased by this turn of events.

"Surely, Molly, you can't be bothered by fabricated balderdash?"

Molly would have responded, but she was too busy wondering who in the world, in the twenty-first century, for god's sakes, could possibly get away with using the word "balderdash". Sherlock had, with a single word, ended the conversation.

The following Monday morning Molly again found her face plastered on the front page of the Tattler, but it wasn't just she and Sherlock.

EX-FLATMATE IN JEALOUS RAGE OVER DR DEATH ROMANCE!

Molly had to giggle at this one. The accompanying photo showed John Watson shoving his best friend, while Molly made a laughing attempt to intervene. She couldn't exactly recall the incident, as the had been numerous occasions where Sherlock had goaded his friend to the breaking point. The fact that she couldn't remember this particular event probably meant that it was, indeed, insignificant.

But now another thought occurred to her. Who was taking these photos? Was she being stalked? No. Probably Sherlock. He was of much more interest to the public. Nevertheless, she looked around uneasily as she entered the building.

Dr. John Watson had completed his rounds at St. Bart's and had stormed into Molly's lab, waving a copy of the Tattler, and ranting as he walked.

"Here we go again! 'Flatmate', 'very close personal friend', accent on the 'very close'! I've been married for almost two years, damn it! At least they've given up calling me a 'confirmed bachelor'. But diminutive! Why am I always 'diminutive'?"

"John, they always refer to me as 'delicate.'"

"Well, you are rather delicate, Molly."

"And you're rather diminutive, John."

"Point taken. Only true parts of the entire story." John sat down with a sigh. "I'm going to see Sherlock about this tonight. Wanna join me?"

"I don't know, John. I wouldn't want to be in the way." Molly answered with an evil wink.

"You're developing a mean streak, Molly. Been hanging around with that bloody bastard too long. I may have to talk to Mary about you attitude."

"Maybe you ought to stay away from 221B," Molly suggested. "Someone's taking these photos. I imagine they'd love one of you skulking back to Baker Street to visit your old 'lover'."

"Again, point taken."

It wasn't until the third headline that a summit was unofficially called.

THREESOME? DR DEATH/AMATEUR DICK/REAL DICK

The usual accompanying photo showed Detective Inspector Lestrade (the presumed "real dick") with his arm around Molly's shoulder as he spoke seriously to Sherlock (obviously, the "amateur dick"). Of course, it had a been completely innocent occasion. Lestrade had been grateful for the assistance of Sherlock and Molly in solving a rather baffling case, and since hugging Sherlock seemed out of the question, he had embraced the tiny pathologist instead.

But now, DI Greg Lestrade was not amused. He was currently involved in trying to extricate himself from his marriage to a serial cheater, and his case could be significantly weakened by implications of improprieties on his part. He got in touch with the parties involved, inviting them to meet him at his favorite pub.

Molly was the first to join him, as she had come straight from work. Soon John Watson arrived, surprisingly accompanied by his wife, Mary.

"How's my godchild?" Molly asked as Mary slid into the booth next to her.

"Fine. We left her with Mrs. Hudson. I think John would like to carry her about with a sign around her neck saying 'John Watson made me'!" Slight pause. " 'With a woman'." Another slight pause before she whispered to Molly, "'And he's not at all diminutive'!'

Sherlock, of course, was the last to arrive, sweeping into the place as if he owned it.

"Mary, I haven't seen you for a bit. You look...well." He had, of course, noted that the mother of a toddler who also held down a full time job looked a bit haggard, but certainly did not wish to offend a former assassin.

"Molly, delicate, as usual. John, diminutive, as always!" He obviously had been reading the scandal sheet. "Graham…"

"Greg…"

"How unfortunate a choice of slang word for 'detective'. Referring to you as a 'real dick'." Sherlock laughed as he said this.

"What makes you think they were using slang, Sherlock? Maybe they were just referring to you?"

"And that would make you an amateur dick?"

"I bow to your expertise and experience in the field of being a dick, Sherlock!" Lestrade raised his glass in salute.

"Well, I take it we are all here to talk about our many and varied imaginary liaisons…"

"Sherlock, I think it's pretty obvious that you're the target here. Don't you think you should do something?", John spoke heatedly.

"What can I do, John? It's very hard to prove libel. And all they have done is speculate, actually."

"Easy for you to say, you git. You're getting off with everybody! Molly, Lestrade, Molly AND Lestrade, and me, for god's sake. I'm a family man! A father!"

"Try not to get too upset, John. Your daughter can't read. She barely a year old!"

"What about Greg?'

"Who?"

"Lestrade, you prat! The man you and Molly are having threesomes with! He's in the middle of a divorce. This doesn't look good…"

"I could give him a list of his soon to be ex-wife's indiscretions that would make him look like a choirboy even if he had shagged the entire cast of "Lord of the Rings", and I am including orcs, dwarfs, elves and the occasional talking tree!"

Greg moaned and took a huge gulp of his ale.

"Molly?"

"I would never have a threesome with Molly. Why would Molly need to allow another man into the equation? And I would certainly never be amenable to such a situation! Besides, she's far too delicate." Here Sherlock slipped in a salacious wink at the pathologist. "Molly is a well-respected member of the medical community, and a well-liked friend to many. Certainly her reputation could not be severely damaged by an insignificant rag such as the Tattler."

After a few drinks, the group decided that there was, indeed, very little they could do to stop the presses, so to speak. The rag would soon move on to easier targets, ones who had at least some semblance of a scandalous sex life to exploit. The group of friends eventually went their own ways, with Sherlock seeing Molly to her flat.

"Sherlock, I know you well enough to know that this kind of speculation usually annoys you. Why are you taking this so calmly?"

"You're right, of course. After the second article, I got in touch with Mycroft. If anyone can shut down the British press, it's him. But it seems he 's enjoying my discomfort a little too much. What makes me unhappy, has the opposite effect on him. He gets so little joy out of starting revolutions in the third world, and toppling governments willy-nilly anymore, that I thought I would let him have this. That, and the fact that I hate to beg! It will pass. People will lose interest. Does it really bother you so much?"

"I've lived with worse."

"Thank you, Molly. I'll make it up to you sometime." Sherlock kissed her on the cheek before she exited the cab.

SECRET LOVE CHILD OF DR DEATH AND BOFFIN DETECTIVE!

This time the photo was of Sherlock and Molly, and the Watson's year old daughter, Claire. Molly was cradling the infant in her arms while the tall, slender man stood over them, looking down with obvious affection.

"When do they think I had time enough to have a secret love child?"

"Well, look on the bright side, Molly. At least they named me as the definite father. They could have included Lestrade, you know, given their past speculation!"

"I don't imagine John will be happy about this!"

"I don't see why he should be upset. To anyone with a scientific mind, it would seem unreasonable to assume that people with our hair color would produce such an obviously blonde infant."

"I don't think John and Mary are going to be thinking scientifically when they see this edition!"

Unfortunately, the article in question brought about another summit meeting, at which nothing, of course, was accomplished. Sherlock had insisted, for reasons known only to himself, that said meeting be held at 221B Baker St.

Lestrade, happily uninvolved this time, sat there in amusement as the other discussed the problem.

John kept passing his daughter around, reminding each person in turn how much she resembled him!

Mary sipped some wine and remarked, "I wished my figure looked as good as Molly's does after giving birth."

Molly just shook her head, sank back further in her seat, and sipped more wine. She was having more imaginary sex in the past few weeks than she had thought was possible. If only her life measured up to the Tattler's imagination!

The following week, the absolutely final edition of the Thames Tattler was published.

FORMER EXOTIC DANCER RUNS DEN OF INIQUITY ON BAKER STREET!

And there were the photos of Mrs. Martha Hudson as she opened her front door to accommodate the entire cast of characters in the current front-page scandal as imagined by the weekly gossip sheet. John Watson returning to his former flat, supposedly with his beard of a wife and the love child of the boffin detective and Dr. Death. DI Greg Lestrade, former and perhaps future participant in some rolicksome threesomes. And finally Dr. Molly Hooper, queen of the dead, whose heated sexuality threatened the the state of preservation of the corpses in her care. All there to visit Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious himself! The article seemed to imply that the elderly Mrs. Hudson was relegated to babysitting, while her younger friends got up to who knows what upstairs, encouraged, no doubt, by the drug lord's widow!

Sometime that week, a series of phone calls was made. Mrs. Hudson called her dear friend Violet. Violet Holmes, although being mildly amused at speculations about her younger son's love life, took exception to the "filthy rag" dragging her dear friend's name through the mud. She then made a call to her elder son, Mycroft Holmes, know in some quarters as "The British Government", Violet being possibly the only person in the world who struck true fear into Mycroft's heart.

Problem solved.

It was readily apparent to Molly, if not to anyone else, why Sherlock had insisted that their last meeting be held at Baker Street. Sherlock was enough of a strategist to know exactly how to maneuver Mycroft into his way of thinking. She climbed the stairs to his flat, knowing that he would be full of himself, and prepared herself to deal with him.

"Well done. Mr. 'Tall, Dark and Delicious'!"

"Thank you, Dr Death. But that better not be the only way you express your appreciation!"

"I don't think that will be a problem now that you're not being stalked." Molly approached him, moving her arms around his neck and twirling a few curls in her fingers.

"God, I've missed this!" Sherlock murmured into her ear as he pulled her closer and nibbled her neck. One hand then wandered into her long loose hair. He pulled back slightly to say jokingly, "You don't intend to invite Graham, do you?"

"Greg…" Molly laughed.

"I especially like the 'love child' story," Sherlock said as he led Molly toward his room.

"It's just a good thing you got rid of the mystery photographer before I started to show! But bloody hell, Sherlock, when and how are we going to tell our friends?"

"Don't worry, Molly. We'll put an announcement in the London Times. They'll have to believe it. After all, it's in the newspaper!"


End file.
